


After the Smoke

by Lyracst



Category: Thronebreaker, Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Gascon Being Gascon, Meve Being a Fucking Glorious Queen, Oral Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, Vaginal Sex, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-17 21:41:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21516898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyracst/pseuds/Lyracst
Summary: Taking place after the events of Thronebreaker, Meve pays Gascon a visit at his new estate.  Flirting and light sexiness in Part One, explicit content in Part Two and Three.
Relationships: Gascon Brossard/Meve (The Witcher)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter 1

He had expected her to visit at some point, if only to check in on him. After all, he was predisposed to a life of villainy and crime, a fact she had emphatically expressed displeasure at on more than one occasion. It seemed that, for some reason, Meve had seen something in him and had come to believe he was better than the deeds of his past, above them. Perhaps she was right, but Gascon had his doubts.    
  
The noble life had proven to be tedious and boring at best. For many years, Gascon had mocked and beleaguered the plush lives of the wealthy. He and his Strays had relieved many fat nobles of their purses, harassed their trade routes, and stolen copious amounts of food and drink that would have filled their tables while others starved. In short, Gascon had largely despised them, and he had found it difficult and more than a little uncomfortable adjusting to being on the other side of that defining line.    
  
Some of his old contacts had had similar feelings. When Meve had awarded him his handful of sprawling estates, Gascon had been stunned beyond words. His mind had raced with possibilities, many of which had since come to fruition. The majority of his Strays remained with him after Nilfgaard’s retreat, accepting his offer to put up their swords and bows and trade their bandit lives for honest work. They stayed on as minor lords, helping him to manage and multiply his sudden abundance of assets. However, some had chosen to leave, disgusted by the turn of events and his willingness to accept Meve’s gifts. They had washed their hands of him with few words and stony faces. It was betrayal in their eyes, pure and simple, and Gascon could understand why.    
  
Yet despite these painful losses and a growing skepticism of his new status, Gascon had striven to be optimistic. He had worked hard to do right by Meve, who had been more than generous to him. He had done what he was expected to do: adopted new, extravagant attire, met and hunted game with neighboring lords, attended luxurious balls and parties of varying purpose and design. He had experienced many new things, been looked at in new ways, and had seen the world from an entirely different perspective. But with each passing day, Gascon could not escape a building sense of confinement.  _ A guilded cage _ . He hated the feeling.   
  
There was no possible way she had heard of his plans to leave, as he had not told a soul, not even his Strays. Perhaps it was coincidence that she was paying him a visit now, or perhaps she knew him better than either of them had imagined. The corners of Gascon’s lips twitched upward slightly at the thought.    
  
An impending commotion roused him from his thoughts, and Gascon looked up from his work - a small wooden carving of a mangy dog, whittled from the branch of a freshly-felled aspen. A few of his laborers were headed his way and moving rather briskly, as though holding back from breaking into a full-on run. Each looked more excited than the next, and the closer they got, the less they could contain their enthusiasm. Finally, one shoved himself forward from the group and cupped his hands to his mouth.   
  
“ _ Oy!  _ There’s a party comin’ up th’ road, m’lord! It’s--”   
  
“Queen  _ Meve _ !” Shouted another before the first could finish, much to his obvious dismay.    
  
Gascon’s pulse quickened in spite of himself.  _ Meve _ . Word had spread quickly of her triumphant return to court, seen copies of documents and edicts signed in her royal signature, but he had not seen her since Rivia. For a moment, he wished he had more time to prepare, to wash up and tidy the main hall of his estate.  _ She’s not stayin’ for dinner, you fool, she’s ‘ere for official business _ . He cleared his throat softly and brought his men to attention with a brisk clap of his hands.   
  
“Right, lads, let’s be sure to give th’ Queen a warm welcome. Meet our guests at th’ road and escort them.”   
  
The men scrambled to it without delay. Those of them closest to their horses vaulted up and rode out at a breakneck charge. The rest did their best to follow on foot, sprinting forward through the tall, unkempt grass, howling and yipping wildly in traditional Stray fashion. A cold wetness drew Gascon’s attention away from the retreating mob. Knickers sat at his side, his curiosity roused by the commotion. He pressed his nose to Gascon’s hand again and whined inquisitively.    
  
“‘Bout time you woke up,” he tousled the dog’s ears affectionately. “Fancy some company?”   
  
Knickers’ tail wagged once in the affirmative before he turned in a tight circle and promptly dropped to the ground with a huff. Gascon wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and returned to his whittling. It was a hot afternoon, but there was a dense humidity in the air that threatened a heavy afternoon thunderstorm. He had never thought much about the weather before, but of late it was often on his mind. After all, the season meant that his many fields would soon be ready for harvest, yet another aspect of his new life he knew next to nothing about. His fellow lords would scoff at his worries, wave a dismissive hand at any display of anxiety around the matter - after all, he could simply  _ pay  _ someone to take charge of harvesting. It was the solution to every problem, he had found, in most nobles’ minds.    
  
His thoughts were pleasantly interrupted by the building thunder of hooves and the chatter of elevated voices. Up the road, a rising cloud of dust signalled the party’s arrival, and through the haze, he spotted familiar banners flapping in the breeze. Barking jubilantly, Knickers leapt to his feet and dashed off, eager to lope alongside the new arrivals. At the fore of the group rode a most recognizable figure, her heavy armor glinting in the sun. She led her party forward up the path and into the open courtyard leading up to the largest building in the estate, the residence he had made his home. Gascon grinned broadly, stood, and spread his arms wide in greeting. Wooden shavings fluttered from his lap.    
  
“Welcome, my lady, to  _ Château de Chien _ !”   
  
He gestured grandiosely, his grin only widening as she rolled her brilliant, blue eyes. She reined in her glistening steed just short of his spacious front porch, dismounting in one deft, graceful leap. Meve, Queen of Lyra and Rivia, handed her reins to one of her waiting escorts. She stood tall before him, as bold and beautiful as ever, her golden hair loosely tied at her shoulder and ruffled from the wind.    
  
“I thought your newfound status would have allowed you to retire that moniker, Lord Brossard,” she swept the back of a gloved hand across her brow and stooped to scratch a jovial Knickers behind his ears. The mutt barked in approval, then promptly dashed off to seek affection from the rest of the entourage.    
  
“Lord I may be, true, but the Duke of Dogs goes by many, many names, dear Mevie. Shall I recite them for you? Duke of Dogs, Sire of Strays, His Trampy Highness, Earl of Mu--”   
  
“Please,” she interrupted quickly, pressing her fingers to her temples. “There’s no need, Gascon, I remember them.”   
  
“I bet you do,” he offered her a sultry wink.   
  
Her lips twisted in a wry smile, which was far more acknowledgement of his joke than he expected. “It’s good to see you, Gascon,” she proffered her hand in greeting.    
  
He deftly avoided her handshake, pretending quite convincingly not to see it, and instead drew her into an unceremoniously grand hug. Gascon thought he heard her growl with disapproval, but she allowed the hug to continue for a good few seconds before pulling away.    
  
“It’s good to see you too, my Queen,” Gascon flashed a genuine smile. “You look well. I’m glad. Though I do ‘ave my doubts that a casual social call’s what brought you all the way out to Spalla.”   
  
Meve chuckled dryly, “You’ve good instincts. I’ve been meeting with a number of influential lords, discussing next steps now that Nilfgaard is in full retreat. The war at large is over, but there are still many blackclads lurking in my land. Soldiers, spies, infiltrators - I want them discovered and driven out.”    
  
“Hey, ho, did you ‘appen to say ‘influential lords’? And you’re here, at my humble abode?”   
  
His smug grin earned him another roll of her eyes. “Did you happen to hear the rest of what I said, or did you stop listening at ‘influential lords’?”   
  
“Oh, I heard you loud and clear, Mevie,” his dark eyes glittered, leaning one broad shoulder against one of the wooden pillars supporting his porch roof. “And I am, as ever, at your service. In any capacity required.”   
  
Meve sighed in exasperation and in doing so glanced up at the darkening sky above. “Splendid. Well, how about you invite me inside so that we discuss what ‘service’ I require before we’re both drenched?”   
  
“My lady, I would be delighted,” Gascon pushed away from the pillar and dipped into an extravagant bow in one deft motion. “Might I just request that your men remove their boots after crossing the threshold? Dirty floors and all. I ‘ate that.”   
  
“I honestly can’t surmise whether or not you’re joking, Gascon, but suffice to say that it doesn’t matter either way. My men will be staying in your guest house. There are some items I would like to discuss with you privately.”   
  
Gascon’s eyes widened in genuine surprise. It was very much unlike Meve to be secretive, especially with respect to her men.  _ Something’s wrong _ .    
  
“Of course,” his tone lost all playfulness, and he cast a quick glance towards her escort. “Oy,  _ Willard _ !”   
  
One of his men loped up at and offered a clumsy but sincere bow to Meve.    
  
“Your Grace. My lord?”   
  
“Willard, see to it that our Queen’s men are made comfortable in the guest house, then make sure to clear out my place. The Queen and I have business to discuss and shan’t be disturbed.”   
  
“Aye, my lord.”   
  
With a stiff nod, the good man briskly advanced towards Meve’s party and began ushering them towards the guest house. Meve’s men glanced towards her with uncertainty, but Willard’s persuasive offer of ale and food eased their concerns. Gascon swung his legs over the porch rails and jumped down, adeptly landing just before her.    
  
“Willard’ll see it done. Shall we?” Gascon offered her his arm with a smile.   
  
Meve stepped past him without a response and ascended the steps to his home, wrenching his front door open.   
  
“I’m leaving my shoes on, Gascon,” she announced tersely, gliding inside, head held high.   
  
“As you wish, your Majesty,” he grinned, following at her heels. “My abode is your abode, after all.”   
  
Meve found her way to one of his larger rooms, a cozy space with an ornately-carved, round dining table sat in front of a glowing hearth. She wasted no time getting settled, tossing a heavy bag into a corner and throwing off her travel cloak. Gascon watched her in silence, leaning casually in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. When at last she seemed to find some level of comfort, she dropped into one of the oak chairs at the table and exhaled. She studied him for a long moment, and he studied her. The silence between them stretched on, punctuated by the crackling of burning firewood.    
  
“What troubles you, Meve?” At last he spoke, stepping into the room and sliding into a seat across from her.    
  
“In truth, a great deal. It’s been...difficult. I am proud of our victories, happy to be back upon the throne as before, yet nothing seems quite the same now that Villem--”, she paused, the rest of her words stopping short at her lips.    
  
Sensing her grief, Gascon averted his eyes. He had lost a lot of family, all of it, in truth, yet he could not imagine what it would be to lose one’s own child. Tentatively, he reached a hand across the table and placed it, ever so gently, upon hers. Meve blinked, initially startled by his forwardness, but any uncertainty seemed to pass, and the tension in her arm and shoulders vanished.    
  
“I will be honest, Gascon,” her brilliant blue gaze flicked up to meet his. “I did not come here to dwell on my troubles. I came here to see you, yes, and perhaps to leave my troubles behind, if just for awhile. You,” her teeth worked at the inside of her lip as she focused her thoughts into words, “you’ve ever been one to find mirth and laughter, even in dark times. Though some of it is a farce, I know, to keep those around you strong, you have an innate ability to  _ relax _ . And I envy you that. And I’d like you to help me.”    
  
She finished quickly, as if the words pained her, and quickly looked away, a trace of embarrassment bringing color to her cheeks. Gascon knew he should not push her, should put aside his incessant teasing and be kind - but how could he?    
  
“Well, well,  _ well _ ,” he grinned far too broadly, and she looked as though she was already deeply regretting her decision. “My fearless, wondrous, lustrous Queen, asking  _ me _ for help? I am honored.”   
  
Meve made a noise of physical pain at his words and looked a bit like she might be ill. Gascon leaned back in his chair and winked.    
  
“Never fear, my lady. As I said earlier, the Duke of Dogs is at your service, in  _ any  _ capacity.”   
  
“What a relief to hear,” she sighed, no small note of agitation roughening her voice, “and if you need suggestions on how to begin, a large glass of wine would be most welcome.”   
  
“An excellent idea, Mevie! My relaxing presence must already be rubbing off on you.”   
  
Meve offered a strained smile through gritted teeth, deliberately ignoring any connotations his words might have carried. Gascon did as she suggested, swiftly returning with two large glasses of wine and the bottle carefully balanced in the crook of his arm. Leaning in close, he placed the brimming glass before her with another wink.   
  
“The best the vineyards of Spalla have to offer, for my cherished Queen.”   
  
She met his gaze and did not waver nor attempt to draw away. Instead, she slowly raised the glass to her lips and took a long drink, her eyes never departing from his. Gascon’s pulse quickened. As she lowered her glass, still unyielding, it was Gascon who ducked his head and pulled away, put off by a sudden, uncharacteristic shyness. He took his seat, this time opting for the chair next to her rather than across the table, and took a long, pensive drink of his own. Meve finally broke her curious stare and cast a glance around his home.   
  
“You seem like you’ve managed to make yourself comfortable. How are you enjoying your lands and titles?”   
  
“They’re grand,” he replied, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. She raised an inquisitive brow, doubt darkening her beautiful eyes. “I...They’re more than I could ‘ave ever dreamed of, Meve, truly. Every day I awake in my bed, I am grateful.”   
  
She turned her glass slowly in her hands, but her eyes were fixed on him. “That wasn’t the question, Gascon.”   
  
He tried a dashing grin, but it fell short. Gascon sighed softly. “I’ve found it ‘ard to adjust. I’m sure that comes as no surprise. I’m a brigand, after all.”   
  
“You’re a good man,” she corrected. “You deserve happiness, whatever form that takes.”   
  
Gascon did not know what to say. Surprised by her words, he sat, glass half-raised, his eyes glazing over in thought. To know that she felt that way meant a great deal to him, yet despite her words, he could not shake off his doubts about himself. She believed in him more than he did, Gascon realized.    
  
“I’m ‘appy you’re here, Meve,” he swallowed hard and lowered his glass to mask the faint trembling in his fingers. “‘Appy to see you.”   
  
She smiled softly, warmly and openly, a look that made his heart swell and race. For a long moment, they simply regarded one another, and Gascon grappled with the desire to say everything, say it all, tell her how he felt. But she was not here for problems. She was not here for more complications, and he had no intention of burdening her. No, he knew his duty, and he would gladly fulfill it. He owed her that and so much more.   
  
At last he broke the silence, his voice faltering with an ill-contained, boyish chuckle, “Will you take your shoes off, now?”   
  
Meve grinned wryly and took another long drink of wine. Slamming her empty glass down on the table, she tilted her noble head. “Perhaps. If you would be so kind as to refill my glass.”   
  
Gascon brandished the bottle he had brought enthusiastically and did as she requested.    
  


“Cheers,” she lifted her glass in thanks and took another drink. Meve cast a pointed look at his glass, which was still quite full. “You’re falling behind.”   
  
“I wasn’t aware that we were racing, m’lady, but the Duke of Dogs ‘asn’t been known to lose, so--,” he drank.    
  
Her laugh rang out, pure and lovely, a rare and wonderful sound. Gascon smiled.    
  
“I don’t mean to nag, but we ‘ad a deal, I believe.”   
  
She looked at him, confused, the first fumes of the wine bringing the faintest blush to her cheeks. Gascon nodded towards her boots.   
  
“Your shoes, m’lady.”   
  
“Are you truly serious?” The corners of her eyes crinkled with amusement.    
  
“Aye, m’lady.”   
  
“Very well,” Meve leaned turned towards him, leaned back in her chair, and delicately placed her legs in his lap. “Then I’ll ask for your assistance in the matter.”   
  
Gascon blinked in surprise, but the hesitation quickly passed. His Queen had given him an order, after all. His devilish grin returned, in full force, as removed his gloves, tossed them on the table, and placed his hands on her shapely calf--or what of it he could get to.    
  
“Sure ‘ard to do as I’m commanded when you’re wearing so much armor, my Queen,” he drawled, his eyes glinting daringly.    
  
She took a slow slip of her wine, met his gaze and replied, her eyes dangerously, enticingly serious, “Then remove it.”    
  
Gascon froze, his eyes flicking to her face, desperately searching for cues to confirm that this was a jest, that she was teasing him. She immediately saw the question in his face and a small, soft smile tugged at the corner of her lips.    
  
“Continue.”   
  
“Aye, my Queen,” he chuckled, almost nervously, a blush of his own rising to his face. His head felt on the verge of spinning.  _ Gods ‘elp me _ . Forgoing his eup, Gascon picked up the bottle of wine and took a generous drink.    
  
He steadied his fingers and sought the buckles to her greaves, one by one, gently working them loose until the piece of armor fell away. He set it aside and returned his hands to her calf. There was a moment of perceived tension when he touched her - he could not be sure if she felt it, too, or if it was his own hesitation he sensed - but when he met her gaze, Gascon saw no fear, no uncertainty, and no deception or illusion. He saw Meve, the woman, seated before him, requesting his attention. He pressed his palms against her muscles, digging in just enough to soften the tension he found there. His hands worked adeptly, with confidence, now, slowly working their way up to the back of her knee, then slowly moving back down. Meve finished the last of her wine, set her cup aside, and closed her eyes, leaning her head against the back of the chair with the softest of sighs. When his fingers reached the top of her mailed boot, he proceeded to unbuckle it, gently lifting her leg so that he could remove the piece of armor. She complied and hummed softly with pleasure when he set aside her boot and wrapped his hands about her exposed foot. He massaged her carefully, cautious not to tickle, his thumbs pressing into her arches and soles. Gascon stole a glance at her face and found her to be serene, her soft lips parted just slightly, her eyes closed. He wondered how long it had been since she had allowed herself such a simple pleasure. When her muscles had loosened, Gascon shifted in his chair and began again on her other leg.    
  
“You’re quite good at this,” she breathed, her voice surprisingly husky.    
  
Gascon grinned. She was enjoying herself, that much was clear, and he could not help but be a bit smug.    
  
“I’ve not ‘ad the chance to practice on a royal foot before, my Queen, but surprisingly it’s not far off from how you’d touch a common foot.”   
  
She laughed softly, “Practiced on a lot of feet, have you?”   
  
“A few,” he smirked. “I don’t like to keep count or brag - it’s not becoming of a Duke, after all.”   
  
Meve withdrew her leg and sat upright. For a moment, Gascon thought his teasing had crossed a line, and words of apology instantly sprang to his lips. They were unnecessary.    
  
“Gascon, may I tell you what I’d like?”   
  
He grew quite serious. “Of course.”   
  
“I’d like a hot bath, some dinner, then I’d like to retire to your bedroom,” her cheeks were flushed and warm, an effect of the wine, for she made her request without fear. “Would you be interested in something similar?”   
  
“I, ah--” Gascon could hardly hear himself speak over the growing pounding in his ears. Her words alone were enough to rouse in him a horrible, wonderful, gnawing desire he had kept subdued and at bay since he had watched her fight in Rosberg, a desire that had only grown ever since. She was waiting for his answer, unwavering as ever, her bright eyes eager and alluring. “Y-yes, Meve,” he breathed at last. “I would.”   
  
“Excellent,” she beamed.    
  
She quickly rose to her feet, too quickly, for the wine rushed to her head and made her reel. He was beside her in an instant. Though not much steadier himself, he held her by the waist, and stood closer to her than he had ever been. For a moment, Gascon feared she would be cross at his blatant breach of courtesy, yet as he attempted to draw his hands away from her body, she gripped his arms with surprising adamancy and held him in place. Then, she kissed him.    
  
His muscles tensed like an animal with its leg caught in a vice. A rush of feelings, all intermingled and all very powerful, each indistinguishable from the next, swept over him. Then, as clarity began to set in, he felt it all: fear, doubt, insecurity, guilt, shame, excitement, and at last, in no small amount, helpless desire. His thoughts, instantly tangled and confused, threatened to overcome him, but he forced them down and away.   
  
Gascon pulled her to him, his arms closing about her waist until she was pressed against him. Her lips were warm and soft and inviting. She tasted of wine and steel, and underneath, she tasted alive. Her lips parted, her tongue seeking his. Her fingers seized his shoulders and pushed him back and back until she pressed him against the wall, a soft growl of pleasure emanating from within her. He let his fears fall away like an unwelcome cloak and surrendered to her, goading her to take it all by kissing her harder, by slipping his hands from her waist down to her powerful hips. She obliged and pushed him harder against the wall, her hand pressing into the back of his neck, keeping him close.    
  
Meve pulled away suddenly and with some effort. Her breath was ragged and shallow, her eyes as wild as though she were one the battlefield. She pressed the fingers of one hand against his chest and seized her composure. Clearing her throat lightly, she brushed a tendril of hair from her face.    
  
“I’d like to use your quarters to undress for my bath,” she instructed evenly. “If I may.”   
  
“Y-yes,” he replied breathlessly, “just upstairs. I’ll see to that ‘ot water.”   
  
“Good,” she sighed, stepping away from him. “Good. I’ll see you upstairs.”    
  
With a nod, she turned and strode across the room, ascending the stairs without a backward glance. Gascon sagged against the wall and quickly adjusted himself in a futile attempt to disguise his arousal. Mind and heart racing, he fought to bring himself under control, a difficult task when he continued to picture her upstairs, undressing in his room. When at last he had wrested back some measure of dignity, Gascon stepped outside into the cool night air and turned his face upwards into the fine rain. Taking a deep breath to clear his head, he set about looking for Willard. He would need some help drawing hot water for Meve’s bath. 


	2. Chapter 2

Willard proved to be unusually difficult to find. Marching across the grounds of his estate, Gascon whistled sharply but received no reply from the man. He did, however, receive a reply from Knickers, who came bounding up from the shadows with vigor, stopped just short of Gascon’s legs, and promptly shook out his drenched coat in an impressive deluge.   
  
“Oy, mutt!” Blocking his face from the onslaught, Gascon could not help but laugh, which only encouraged the dog. Knickers made an agile leap to the side and nipped playfully at Gascon’s hand. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and ‘elp me find Willard, eh?”   
  
Knickers’ ears perked up at the name.    
  
“Don’t pretend you know who I’m talking about.”   
  
Knickers whined softly, thumped his dripping tail into the mud, and earnestly leaned his body to the east.    
  
Gascon’s brow furrowed with suspicion, “You seriously know who I’m talking about? Willard? Tallish bloke, arse-ugly even to ‘is mum?”   
  
Knickers barked once, decisively.   
  
“Fine,” Gascon sighed, glancing around to ensure that no one was watching him take directions from a dog. “Let’s go, then. I’ve a queen waiting for me.”   
  
The two set off at a brisk pace, Gascon trudging determinedly and Knickers bounding through the mud with apparent joy. They continued onward for several minutes, the rain falling harder now. Just as Gascon was beginning to doubt his canine companion’s reliability, Knickers gave an excited bark and launched forward towards the estate’s guest house. He led Gascon to a small mound and began to dig fervently. Gascon knelt beside him.    
  
“I ‘ate to break it to you, but I seriously doubt ‘e’s in there, boy.”   
  
Willard was, in fact, not in the hole Knickers had identified, but an impressive stash of half-gnawed bones was. Gascon scowled at the discovery. However, the tirade he was preparing to deliver to the dog subsided when he heard the sound of raised voices and laughter drifting out from the guest house. Gascon gave Knickers a pat of thanks and left him to his business. Inside, he at last found Willard entertaining Meve’s men with a bawdy tale. The gleeful glint in their eyes suggested it had been some time since they had been allowed the luxury of such filth.  _ Courtesy of a certain Reynard Odo, no doubt. Still ‘as that lance up ‘is arse, I see.  _ __   
__   
Willard was kind enough to break away from his riveting tale of a particularly memorable brothel he had visited some years past to help Gascon draw and carry several large buckets of hot water back to Gascon’s home. His kindness ended at the foot of the stairs, but Gascon did not mind - he set to work hauling the sloshing buckets upward to his private quarters. Meve was waiting.    
  
She was seated in one of the armchairs near the windows overlooking his estate. She had undressed to her underthings and sat, legs tucked neatly beneath her, staring outside into the gloom. Long rivulets of rain rolled down the window panes. A blanket from his bed was half-draped around her, and she pulled it tighter to shield against the draft from the opening door. She looked pensive, her eyes full and sad. But, upon hearing him enter the room, Meve turned her head and smiled, the gloom darting away as if forced down.    
  
“You’re back.”   
  
“Sorry for the delay, my Queen,” he bowed as best he could and lifted the buckets of water, one in each hand. “But the bath will continue, as scheduled.”   
  
She slipped out of the chair, the blanket falling away as she stood, and approached him. Gascon had only dreamed of seeing her as she was now, but even his dreams could not accurately capture her beauty. He was staring, he knew, his eyes fixated on her marvelous, chiseled form. Staring like a common brute, but he could not look away. A slow, sly smile crossed Meve’s features. She stepped closer still, stopping just short of him. Even without her boots, she stood several inches taller than him. Whatever composure Gascon had gained from stepping outside to find Willard slipped away in an instant as Meve slowly, very slowly, leaned in towards him. Her body was mere inches from his, her skin, barely veiled by her undergarments, radiating warmth. Her hands brushed against his, her lips grazed his ear.   
  
“Thank you,” she lifted the buckets from his hands and stepped back.    
  
Gascon did not, or rather could not, move. Rooted to the spot, he gave the faintest of laughs, his attempt to maintain some semblance of confidence and dignity, and swallowed hard. If she had been beautiful a moment ago, words could ill describe how she appeared now, rippling muscles flexed as she lifted the buckets with ease. Her smile unwavering, Meve turned and walked into the bath chambers, taking the time to walk slowly so that her lovely hips swayed with each step. As she exited the room, she paused in the doorway and glanced backwards.   
  
“Fetch the rest of them, will you?”   
  
Gascon nodded helplessly, quite unable to formulate even a single word of confirmation. It was only after she disappeared into the bathing chambers that the spell was seemingly broken. His shoulders, which he had not realized were tensed, sagged, and he exhaled a long, slow breath.    
  
“Bugger me,” he whispered, his senses slowly returning, and turned to hurry down the stairs for the next pair of buckets.    
  
She was waiting for him when he returned, though this time she simply accepted the buckets with a nod. In just a couple of additional trips, Meve’s bath was brimming with steaming water. Gascon ascended the stairs one last time, her travel bag slung in tow. She was already sitting contentedly in the bath, the deep water nearly up to the tops of her shapely, elegantly powerful shoulders. Gascon crept into the chambers, not wishing to disturb her, but also unable to resist the possibility of glimpsing more of her captivating beauty. Meve tugged the band from her golden hair and sunk a bit lower into the water. As she moved down, more of her lovely, long legs became visible. As she sat up once more, he could see the ripples of muscle along her back, even more clearly defined when wet.   
  
“Thought you might need this,” he murmured, entranced.    
  
Meve paused and turned her head, her profile illuminated softly by the candlelight. “Thank you. Could you leave it there for me?” she gestured to a spot near the bath. “I shan’t be long. I simply wish to remove myself of some of the grime I’ve accumulated from the road.” She sunk further down in the water, revelling in the feel of it, and sighed. “Gods, it feels like it’s been ages since I’ve had the chance to take a proper bath.”   
  
“Then you’ve all the more reason to come visit me more often,” Gascon grinned, placing her bag where she had indicated. “For you, my bath is always open. So long as I get to watch every now and again, of course. It’s only right, a gesture of gratitude to your ‘ost and--”   
  
A cutting wave of bath water to the face silenced him.    
  
“Great,” Gascon sighed dolefully and shook his head, droplets of water flying from his short hair, “now I must bath as well. Move over a bit, will you?”   
  
He made as if were going to get into the tub and was promptly barred by strong arms, her palms pressing firmly into his shoulders.    
  
“Meve, I must, I’m filthy!” He insisted and leaned his face closer. “Look at me!”   
  
“Don’t you dare,’ she laughed, holding her ground. “You are very  _ filthy _ indeed, sir, but you’d need more than a bath to remedy that!”   
  
“‘urtful,” he crooned, leaning closer still, his torso perilously close to dipping into the water. “You’re as fierce with your words as you are with your sword, my Queen.”   
  
“Somehow I believe you’ll find it your villainous heart to forgive me,” she spoke softly, her dripping hand rising to touch the side of his face.    
  
Meve’s brilliant eyes danced with laughter and something else, something far more mischievous...something that made him ache in a way that only she could incite. She pressed her lips to his softly, sweetly at first, then harder. The soft stroke of her tongue asked a question. He answered by leaning in yet closer, caution fully abandoned as the water enveloped his arms and chest, and kissed her fiercely. If she was uncertain as to how desperately he desired her, if even for a moment, Gascon would happily dispel that fear. She gasped in surprise at his forwardness but did not seem displeased. Her arms slipped about his shoulders, and she used him as an anchor to pull herself closer to him. His own arms encompassed her, encircling her. He could feel the heat of her breasts against his chest through his thin tunic, feel her pulse rising, matching his own.    
  
At last she broke the kiss, but it seemed to be with reluctance that Meve pulled away. Her gaze scanned his face, and whatever she found there made her lips twitch into a soft smile.    
  
“You’re quite wet,” she stated smugly.    
  
“Aye. Worth it,” he breathed, withdrawing himself from the tub and glancing down at his saturated tunic. In a deft motion, Gascon pulled the garment over his head and off and tossed it aside where it squelched to the floor. “There.”   
  
“You are shameless, but, my,” Meve sat back and unabashedly looked him over with a rather queenly gaze, “quite the view. I’m not sure I’ll ever finish my bath, with such distractions.”   
  
“Would that really be so bad, m’lady? I could stay in shape lugging pails of ‘ot water up the stairs, and you could relax indefinitely, for once, with not a soul to bother you.”   
  
“Except for you,” Meve corrected with a grin.   
  
“Aye, ‘cept me, of course,” he mirrored her smile and slowly extended his hand to caress the marvelous curve of her collarbone. “I think it’s a grand idea! C’mon, Meve, don’t make me beg. At least, not in  __ this  context. ‘Appy to beg for other things if y--”   
  
He ducked and deftly, if barely, dodged a swing of her arm. Chuckling, he scrambled back away from the tub and to his feet.    
  
“Begone, you fiend!” She laughed, pointing to the door and threatening to send another wave of water towards him.    
  
Gascon raised his hands in surrender, “As you command, my delectable Queen.”

_ “Out!” _ __   
__   
He bowed and slipped out the door with one last wink. Gascon made his way to the kitchen. In truth, he was grateful she had expelled him from the bathroom, as he had yet to prepare her meal, and he was quite clueless as to how to go about said task. Gascon’s most familiar cooking style was more akin to foraging than anything, and what was more, he had no idea what he had available to prepare. Yet, try he must.    
  
In the kitchen, he was fortunate enough to find some basics, left for him by one of his house servants: eggs, bread, milk. There was also a decent selection of fruit and vegetables, freshly harvested. It was hardly fare fit for a queen, he knew, but somehow he doubted she would complain. In fact, Meve seemed wonderfully comfortable here, a detail that Gascon was trying desperately to keep from overwhelming him with senseless hope.  _ She’s not stayin’.  _   
  
“Per’aps not,” he muttered to himself, drawing a clean knife and swiftly cutting into a large potato, “but she’s ‘ere now.”   
  
When the humble feast’s preparation was complete, Gascon assembled the offering onto a large tray and made his way back upstairs. Before entering the bedroom, however, he made one stop to retrieve an article of clothing: one absurdly extravagant, royal purple fur-lined cape he had received as a gift. He fashioned the cape about his neck and bare shoulders and resumed his path into his chambers. Meve was waiting, seated casually on the floor of the bedroom, methodically folding her dirty travel clothes and placing them in her bag. Her damp hair was loose and already beginning to rearrange itself into loose, golden curls. She wore clean, simple cotton breeches and a tunic, the latter being the elegant blue that she so often wore, the same shade as her captivating eyes. She turned those eyes to him as he entered and smiled, a radiant, honest smile.    
  
“Just when you thought things were about to get dull!” He announced triumphantly, tray held high.   
  
“Dinner brought directly to my room? I’m impressed, though,” several looks rapidly crossed her face - confusion, illumination, and finally amusement - as she noticed his cape, “I am a little confused as to your choice of attire.”   
  
“My Queen deserves no less,” Gascon bowed with surprising elegance, considering the tray of food he carried and the hindrance of the cape. “Though this ‘umble lord could not ‘elp but notice the choice of words. ‘ _ My room _ ,’ was it?”   
  
“Your ears did not deceive you. My room, indeed, at least for the night. I thought you’d be happy to share,” Meve arched a rather mischievous brow. “And I will take my food here on the floor, if you would be so kind.”   
  
“Oh, I’m perfectly content to share, m’lady. Couldn’t be ‘appier, actually,” he stooped to place the tray before her.    
  
“Sit,” she gestured for him to sit, and so he did. “Will you join me?”   
  
Gascon nodded, crossing his legs and moving closer to her. He watched intently as she sampled some of the food and glanced at him in surprise.    
  
“This is rather good. You made this yourself?”   
  
He nodded again, a slow grin creeping across his face.    
  
“Truly? You’re a man of many talents. Gloating, stabbing people, cooking eggs.”   
  
“I’ve done a bit of cooking, m’lady, for my men. Nothin’ fancy, but they never complained. Maybe out of fear of a shiv to the eye, sure, but possibly because the food’s not ‘alf bad.”   
  
She chuckled and shook her head, but continued happily to eat.   
  
“Will you tell me, now, where you got such a ridiculous article of clothing?”   
  
Gascon shot her an exaggerated look of offense.   
  
“Ridiculous? I’m told it’s the latest fashion!” He stroked the luxurious, purple fur of his cape far too suggestively.    
  
“By  __ whom ?”    
  
“Why, by the Lady Mildred, a noblewoman of outstanding moral fiber and pedigree!”   
  
“Ah, I see. And should I be concerned about this Lady Mildred? It seems she favors you,” Meve reached out to stroke the cape herself, her eyes twinkling.    
  
“You should most certainly be concerned, my Queen, if it’s the title ‘Spalla’s Most Prolific Embroiderer’ you seek.”   
  


“It is not,” Meve admitted with a laugh, setting aside her plate to pour herself a glass of wine.   
  
Gascon leaned in dangerously close and arrested her movements, gently taking the bottle of wine and glass from her fingers.    
  
“Then you’ve nowt to worry about, Meve.”   
  
He poured her glass himself, slowly, his eyes locked on hers. No doubt he looked absolutely ridiculous, a bare-chested, purple-caped buffoon sitting cross-legged on the floor, but Meve did not laugh. Instead, she held his gaze, her lips set in a soft, determined smile. She accepted the glass he offered her, her fingers brushing against his. The look in her eye was piercing, but pleasurably so, a look that seemed to suggest that she had made up her mind. A warmth rose to his cheeks at the look, and he was reminded instantly of their surroundings. Gascon’s eyes involuntary shifted to the bed before he could stop himself. She noticed, of course, and her smile spread into a most devious grin, a victorious smirk. But she showed some degree of mercy and resumed eating and drinking, opting not to tease him.    
  
They sat together on the floor, sharing a meal and chatting away. For the most part, Gascon regaled Meve with tales of his various meetings with surrounding lords and nobles. He made her laugh. He made her laugh as many times as he was able, and each laugh came easier and easier, it seemed. Before his eyes, the weight appeared to slowly lift itself from her shoulders, and in turn she even began to tell jokes of her own. She told him, too, of her return to Lyria and her throne, of the letters she had received from Eyck and Isbel, of the work she had been doing with Reynard to restore her bleeding realm.    
  
“And ‘ow is old Reynard? You’ll let ‘im know I’ve missed ‘im terribly, won’t you?”   
  
“Of course, and I’m sure he’ll offer the same sentiment. He’s well and as dutiful as ever, which shouldn’t surprise me, I suppose. I swear, he never tires, never seems uncertain. Even after all we’ve been through.” Her eyes grew distant, pensive. “I’m afraid I couldn’t manage without him.”   
  
“Sounds like Reynard,” Gascon chuckled softly. “‘E’s a good man.”   
  
“He is,” Meve blinked and smiled wistfully.    
  
For a long moment, they sat in a silence punctuated only by the crackling of the hearth and the sound of rain pattering against the roof. After some time, Meve excused herself to retrieve a blanket, and Gascon cleared away the dishes, setting them aside. Meve re-settled herself in a spot much closer to the fire and gestured for him to sit with her. He did so. Meve poured herself a fresh glass of wine. Her motions were smooth, measured, but there was something about her that felt tense. She looked, several times, as though she wished to say something before promptly changing her mind.    
  
“What is it, Meve?” He encouraged her gently.   
  
“May I confess something?”    
  
“Of course.”   
  
She inhaled a long, shuddering breath and began. “I’m not certain I can continue as I have. I-,” she bit her lip, her brow furrowing as she grappled with the thought, “I’m not sure I have it in me to care anymore. About my duties as Queen.”   
  
He said nothing, only listened. She looked to him, her eyes wide with uncertainty and pain as she heard herself speak the words.    
  
“Gascon, I can’t let it go. Villem. The thought of him, everything that happened. I failed him, failed at one simple task - to raise my son with love, to show him how to be a proper king. I dream of him every night. I dream--,” her voice faltered, and she looked away, attempting in vain to hide the tears that fell.    
  
Gascon reached out slowly in attempt to comfort her, and she pulled away, her eyes flashing with anger.    
  
“How can I rule a kingdom when I cannot even protect my own  _ son _ ? He saved me, in the end, saved us all. He was a good man, truly. He was good, and I let the Nilfgaardians  _ slaughter  _ him.”    
  
Meve wept openly, consumed by her grief, the specter that had been haunting her for a long time. Her strong shoulders collapsed, her head bowed. It was the first time she had spoken of her pain, he knew, and keeping it to herself had weighed on her greatly. For the first time since he had known her, Gascon saw Meve broken. He felt helpless, useless, for no words could erase her pain, no amount of comfort could alleviate her guilt. All he could do was offer his arms, a gesture she accepted. She fell against him, drained and weary, and allowed him to embrace her. Gascon held her close.   
  
She wept until she had no tears left. In time, her shoulders no longer shuddered with each sob, her eyes dried, and the silence was again only broken by the patter of rain, the crackle of hearth. He did not let go. His fingertips tracing a slow path up and down her arm, his head resting against hers. Gascon continued to wrestle with the right words to say to her, for he wished them to be heard by her as clearly as he felt them within himself. He wished to soothe her, wished to strengthen her, and he wished to thank her. He wished to tell her so many things.    
  
But he did not get the chance. Meve turned her face into his neck and kissed him, so softly that at first Gascon assumed it had been a simple mistake. The uncertainty was quickly dispelled, however, as she kissed his neck again, harder, her lips warm against his skin. Her fingers ran over his bare chest, her nails scratching softly.    
  
“Meve, wha-?” Gascon laughed softly in bewilderment, alarmed by her sudden advances and change in mood. Yet, he found it exceedingly difficult to pull away. His resistance was further weakened as her lips roved upwards along his jaw and paused at his ear.    
  
“Lie back,” she whispered, her teeth gently scraped his earlobe. She placed her hand on his chest and pressed, urging him backwards.    
  
He swallowed hard and did as she asked, his pulse instantly elevating as she let slip away the blanket that had been wrapped about her and straddled him, fearlessly. Her gaze burned with passion, or perhaps it was the firelight. The edges of her golden hair seemed to blur into the darkness. In that moment, everything felt surreal, unbelievable. Gascon worried for a moment that he was dreaming, but even his dreams had not dared to imagine this. She leaned close to him, and he could smell the sweetness of the soap she had chosen on her skin, in her hair. Her fingers pressed into his shoulders as her lips pressed against his neck.   
  
“Meve,” he rasped helplessly, “I’m not certain this is a good idea.”   
  
She paused, “You do not want this?”   
  
“Of course I do. Gods, I want it terribly.”   
  
Meve sat up slowly, her gaze meeting his. She tilted her head, attempting to discern the meaning of his words.    
  
“I just,” how to explain it to her? “Meve, I--”   
  
“You fear that I am not myself. That I am out of my right mind,” she finished for him, clarity suddenly dawning on her. “You fear that I am making this decision lightly, that I may come to regret it.”   
  
“Yes.”    
  
Meve studied him for a long moment, still gracefully straddling him, a fact that Gascon was all too keenly aware of. Her muscular legs encased him, warm and powerful, and her hips rested upon his own. At last she exhaled a slow, shuddering breath and leaned forward once more, perhaps sliding the warmth between her legs over his groin with a bit more precision than necessary. Gascon held back a very inappropriate groan of eagerness.    
  
“I am aware of my actions, Gascon. I am grieving, yes, but I am not grief-addled. I’ve been drinking, yes, but I am not drunk,” her voice softened. “I thank you for your consideration and appreciation your concern, truly I do, but I assure you. I want this. I need this. I want  _ you _ .”    
  
Her fingers played tentatively with the knot holding his cape in place about his shoulders, a question posed to him, and she awaited his response. Her words rang true, and his doubts dissipated. Gascon nodded his consent blankly, too stupefied by the powerful combination of her beauty and the sincerity of her words to do much else. She instantly loosened the knot, wasting no time, and pushed the cape back and off of him.    
  
“You know,” she tugged the fabric, urging him up. Gascon arched his back, and she pulled the cape out from under him, tossing it aside - it vanished into the darkness. “I really am starting to like that cape.”   
  
Gascon chuckled dizzily and at last placed his hands upon her thighs. He ran hands up them slowly, gasping as she resumed her work at his neck.   
  
“Hmm, no witty comebacks, no scathing sarcasm? The Duke of Dogs is at a loss for words, it seems - we must make note of this momentous occasion.”   
  
“It seems you ‘ave that effect on me, my Queen,” he confessed, his hands slowly roving up along the sides of her legs and boldly gripping her most shapely backside.    
  
Meve gave a soft gasp of surprise and delight, an impossibly lovely sound.   
  
“I’ve always wanted to do that.”   
  
“Oh, have you?” She could not suppress a laugh.   
  
“For longer than I’d care to admit,” he confessed. “May I show you something else I’ve always wanted to do to you?”   
  
“Will I regret it if I say yes?”   
  
“Not likely,” he grinned devilishly, his fingertips playing with the edge of her breeches.   
  
“Very well,” she sighed, sitting up with an assumed air of haughtiness. “You may proceed, my lord.”   
  
“My lord?” Gascon seized her waist and flipped them both deftly so that she lay on her back and he above her. “It ‘as a nice ring to it, I must admit, coming from your sweet lips.”   
  
She pursed said sweet lips in dismay at her newfound position and began to utter a protest. Her retaliation was cut short by another gasp of surprise as Gascon swiftly slipped down between her legs and kissed her warmth through the thin fabric of her breeches.    
  
“Gascon--” she breathed his name in surprise, her face flushing a lovely shade of rose.   
  
“Hmm?” He glanced casually up at her from where he lay and kissed her again, his eyes dancing with delight as she blushed all the more. “Seems Reynard’s been shirking ‘is duties,” Gascon tutted, slowly unfastening her breeches. “Perhaps next time you visit you should bring ‘im along so I can teach ‘im a few tricks.”   
  
Gascon had not thought Meve’s blush could deepen but soon found he was wrong.    
  
“Shut up,” she muttered, lifting her hips so that he could slide her breeches down and off of her.    
  
“As you command,” he chuckled and dutifully returned to his place between her now-bare legs.    
  
He tasted her slowly, purposefully, his tongue running along each soft fold with care. There was no doubt he had imagined this very moment many times, but no fantasy could match his enjoyment at getting to actually taste her and watch her respond to his attentions. And she seemed to be enjoying herself as well, for respond she did. Meve gasped and moaned as he continued, her legs wrapping about him in a warm embrace. But it was when her nails dug into his shoulders and her muscles suddenly tensed that he knew he had found a pattern to her particular liking. Smirking victoriously, he ran his hands under her shirt and over the smooth skin of her torso and hips and worked his tongue more fervently, repeating again and again the motion she seemed to enjoy most. Her moans evolved into soft, ragged cries. Meve’s thighs tightened about his neck, holding him in place and demanding he continue - an order he gladly obeyed. Her warmth softened beneath his lips, an unmistakable sign of her growing pleasure, and Gascon became keenly aware of his own arousal. Her muscles were becoming increasingly tense, her hips thrashing eagerly against him with each stroke of his tongue. He gripped her hips firmly, steadying them and holding her in place as he focused his attention yet further.    
  
Meve’s cries reached new, glorious heights, and Gascon groaned against her, mesmerized. She let go of any hesitations, embracing the pleasure offered to her. She writhed on the floor, fighting valiantly with the growing tension. But at last, she lost the battle, or surrendered. Her breath caught in her throat, her back arched, and her abs flexed. Meve cried out, a shuddering, tremulous moan of pleasure that filled the room like music. Her legs tightened, pulling him to her, as wave upon wave of ecstasy shuddered through her until she finally fell still. She released him, yet Gascon did not wish to venture far. He kissed her warmth once more and pulled himself up so that he lay above her, resting upon his elbows. He grinned victoriously down at her.    
  
“It seems you are indeed a man of many skills,” she confessed breathlessly, “and that your clever tongue can, in fact, do more than just annoy.”   
  
“I appreciate that you appreciate my finer talents, my lady,” his grin widened, and he dared to stroke the lovely line of her jaw with a gentle finger.    
  
Gascon pushed himself up, preparing to depart from her, but was halted by a most adamant command, her arms looping about his neck.    
  
“Leaving so soon?” She challenged. Before he could respond, Meve brought her lips to his and kissed him hard. Her hand trailed down his chest, his stomach, and rested between his legs, victoriously pressing against his prominent arousal. She gripped him harder, and he could not suppress a soft groan of anticipation. “As I thought,” she murmured, clearly pleased with what she found.   
  
In a move mimicking his, Meve gripped his shoulders and flexed her hips, effortlessly tossing him to the ground and pinning him beneath her. She seized his wrists in each of her hands, her gaze freely and voraciously roving over his bare upper body. Meve pressed her hips down against his, coaxing from him another eager groan as she moved herself along his hardness. It was her turn to smirk, eyes aglow, as she leaned in close, her voice a hungry whisper at his ear.    
  
“I’m not through with you yet by far.”   



	3. Chapter 3

Not for the first time this night, Gascon was rendered speechless by the sight before him. Before her, he had fancied himself an unwillingly learned man who had seen much, if not all, of their rugged world and the brief, harsh lives they lived within it. He had seen cruelty, known loss. He had overcome struggles against great odds, known victory. He had seen beauty and kindness and bravery. But she was something else. She was a vision, like nothing and no one he had witnessed in all that he had seen, and he knew he would find no one like her again.   
  
In truth, he longed to be near her. He ached when apart from her, felt a pain he had never felt before. Despite all he had seen, Gascon had never felt more alive than he had during the months he had spent at her side, trudging through the endless forests of the Moulderwood, the biting Mahakam snow, the stifling swamps of Angren - fighting alongside her all the while. He would never forget the way she looked just before their last great battle together, when she had stood outside her own castle and raised her sword against all of the evil and injustice that lurked there. When her fate and the fate of all her subjects had hung by a delicate thread. A pivotal moment, it had been, yet so much seemed left to chance. When none of Meve’s fellow rulers of the North had dared to take a stand, Meve had stood tall in the face of overwhelming odds, and she had _won_.  
  
The pride he felt to stand beside her had swelled and morphed into something else, something new. Now, it was her voice he heard when he closed his eyes each night, her face that smiled at him within his dreams. _Her laugh._ Though he had not seen her since he had left Rivia, she was with him all the while, it seemed. Leaving her had been painful, but even then, he had known he would see her again. And he had had no excuse to stay by her side, as others had. After all, she had granted him status, given him land, and returned to him a reputation and honor that was rightfully his, but he would have traded it all in a heartbeat to continue fighting at her side, to simply stand beside her as an adviser, an ally, a friend.   
  
It was surreal to see her, now, as she was here, above him, when he opened his eyes. To feel her touch as she placed her hands on his, guiding him beneath her tunic. Surreal to know every intimate detail about her: the warmth of her body, the taste of her skin, the press of her hips against him through his clothes...   
  
Meve made a soft noise of impatient exasperation, the longing in it rousing him from his reverie. She arched her breasts into his touch, urging him to continue.   
  
“Gascon,” she murmured his name - he could not help but flush at the sound of it, his name spoken by her in a tone of such longing - and flexed her hips again, pressing hard into him.   
  
He eagerly obeyed her unspoken command and ran his fingers across her soft skin, his thumb gently stroking her nipple and earning him an eager sigh. He hurriedly pushed the fabric of her tunic up and over her head, with her assistance, and tossed the garment aside. She sat above him, now completely bare, breathless and daring him to make his move. Gascon grinned, suddenly, devilishly. Her brow furrowed with suspicion, but before she could question the reason for his mirth, he sat up enough to kiss the soft curve of her breast. His hands slid up her thighs, but paused purposefully before reaching her center. She sighed again with heightened exasperation, unconsciously shifting her hips in an attempt to guide him. His fingers danced around her, slowly, very slowly, massaging and teasing, never quite venturing where he knew she wished them.   
  
“Gascon,” she snapped hoarsely, “why are you--ah!”  
  
He caught her nipple in his mouth, his tongue running hard over her soft skin. She pressed herself against him, her fingers slipping urgently through his hair.   
  
“Gasc-” His name fell from her lips, unfinished, her fingers loosening in surrender as his kiss intensified.   
  
“Hmm?” He gripped her nipple gently between his teeth and glanced up at her with an expression of pure innocence. “Something the matter, my queen?”  
  
She leered at him in disbelief, apparently surprised that he could continue to tease and make jokes at such a time. He grinned yet wider and chuckled at her blushing ire.  
  
“Wha-?”  
  
His inquiry was cut short as she shoved him back down against the ground and gripped the edge of his breeches. Her fingers worked furiously, unlacing him in record time. She pulled them from him fiercely and cast them aside. Gascon swallowed. Meve ran her hand swiftly down his torso and seized him. He had already been hard with anticipation, but the feeling of her warm, firm touch made him pulse with excitement. She stroked him purposefully, once, twice, her eyes intent on his face, hungrily drinking in the reaction she garnered from him. He could not help it, could not suppress it. He groaned, his head falling back with pleasure.   
  
She seized the opportunity. Pressing her free hand into his chest, Meve straddled him once more, this time aligning him between her legs and slowly sinking down. She continued until he was fully surrounded by her, sheathed within her. This time, they both sighed in unison, collectively revelling in the alleviation of their intense anticipation, the sheer pleasure of their joining. They paused for a moment, each silently caught off-guard by the rightness of the moment, for neither was a stranger to carnal pleasure, yet neither had experienced anything quite like this.   
  
Lips quivering ever so slightly, her face close to his, Meve was the first to move. She drew away from him, slowly, deliberately, until they had nearly parted. Then, she thrust herself back down. Gascon surrendered to her as she continued at the pace she desired, his hands running back up along her thighs, over the curve of her hips, her taut, powerful waist, over her beautiful, round breasts. He could feel himself falling into unparalleled bliss, yet he struggled against it, fighting to stay focused, for he knew he must remember all that he could, every moment, every detail.   
  
Her thrusts were beginning to quicken, becoming ever more intense. He returned his hands to her hips and gripped her gently, matching his thrusts to her own to drive deeper. She cried out with heightened pleasure and leaned forward, her nails digging deliciously into the skin of his shoulders. She rode him hard, her pace unforgiving, so much so that he found himself challenged to keep up with her. Entranced, he watched as her brow furrowed with concentration, her moans quieting as she focused on her mounting pleasure. He swiftly brought his thumb to the sensitive crest between her legs, drawing firm circles against her to match their thrusts. The pressure of this added pleasure was too much, or rather, just enough. With a final, shuddering cry, she flexed her hips and drew him in completely, her muscles rippling as she came.   
  
Breathless and trembling with a combination of ecstasy and exertion, Meve let herself fall forward and against him, her chest pressed to his. He could feel the warmth of her breath, and when he pressed his lips to her neck, the delicate curve of her shoulder, he could taste the perspiration on her skin.   
  
As she caught her breath, Meve became aware of his persistent hardness still within her. Raising her head, she looked at him pointedly, flexed her muscles around him, and grinned at his low groan of pleasure. Gascon gratefully accepted her invitation. Wrapping his arms about her, he carefully rolled them over in a motion that echoed one from earlier in the evening. This time, there was no indignant protest. This time, Meve lifted her legs with a rather mischievous, blushing smile that he would never forget. He seized her ankles, gently guiding them to his shoulders, and positioned himself between her legs.   
  
He paused at her entrance and glanced to her, wishing to be absolutely certain of her desire to continue. She answered by flexing her hips, drawing him in. The tightness of her still-contracting muscles was dizzying, and it was all he could do to stop himself. Leaning in closer to her, Gascon thrust into her slowly. She lifted her arms above her head, surrendering fully to the pleasure they shared; he ran his hands along her wrists, his fingers interlocking with her own. Her lips sought his, her tongue pressing into his mouth, drawing him into deep kiss as he thrust into her one last time. He let go with a shuddering sigh.  
  
Reeling with pleasure, he kissed her once, twice more, then fell still, resting his head upon her chest. They remained joined for some time, her fingers running slowly across his scalp while he listened to the elevated beating of her heart. At last, he withdrew from her, slowly, reluctantly, and rolled to his back beside her. They each stared at the ceiling above them, each lost in their own thoughts, adrift in their own pleasure, yet very much together.   
  
When at last their breathing had slowed, Meve reached for his hand and rose, pulling him quite adamantly towards the bed. They lay down together, side by side, contentedly burrowing into the pile of blankets and furs assembled there. After they had settled, and to Gascon’s silent delight, Meve moved closer to him. She curled with her back against him, her body wondrously warm and soft, her foot sliding gently along his leg in an unspoken request. He needed no further prompting. Gascon drew her into his arms, pressed his face into the wild curls of her hair, and held her close. For a long while, they lay in comfortable silence.  
  
“Meve?” Gascon spoke softly, afraid he might wake her.  
  
“Mmm?”  
  
“I’ve been thinking. A lot, as of late. It’s been some time, now, since the war ended. There aren’t likely to be any more battles in the near future. Your army’s dispersed, we’ve all returned to our places. Yet, I can’t ‘elp but think about it still. What it was like, all of us travelling together. I know it was a nightmare, most of it. I know we all ‘ave more scars than we can count because of it. I know I should be grateful that it’s done, that I wake up every morning safe in this very bed. I know I should be glad, but sometimes I...I wish that...” He laughed nervously, finding it difficult to put what he needed to say into words. “I wish it wasn’t over. I wish, instead of waking up ‘ere, that I was still waking up in the tent next to yours, first thing, even before the bloody sun’s risen, ready to ride by your side to wherever the day takes us. Is that daft?”  
  
She rolled over to face him. In the dwindling light of the fading hearth, he could not see much of her features, just the glint of her large eyes He could not discern its meaning.  
  
“Of course it’s daft,” she rasped, her voice harsh with an emotion he could not place. Gascon could not help but wince at her words. Yet, she continued. “It’s also the kindest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”  
  
“Meve, I,” he swallowed hard, painfully aware of her gaze, which was locked so intently with his. He wished to look away for fear of what she might say, what she might think of him, but he could not. “I care for you. More than I know ‘ow to say. I...I know this time together, this is all we’ll ‘ave, and I’m grateful, grateful for all of it, but...I just wanted you to ‘ear it. I just wanted you to know.”  
  
His brought caught in his throat as Meve kissed him, softly. She moved closer so that her body melded against his own. Their legs entwined, as did their arms, until there was nothing to separate them. She pressed her face into his chest. He ran his fingers through her hair and kissed the top of her head. It was not long before she fell asleep, and sleep she did, deeply and comfortably, as though she had not slept in years. He, too, found himself fighting his drooping eyelids, though he wished to stay awake, to treasure this time with her as best he could. Eventually, their quiet comfort won the night. They slept together for some time, perhaps for minutes, perhaps hours. Gascon neither knew nor cared.   
  
It was she who awoke first. In fact, she had nearly finished dressing before he registered her absence. When he noticed her missing from his arms, Gascon sat up sharply, squinting into the darkness of the bedroom.   
  
“Meve?”  
  
“I’m here,” he could hear the smile in her voice before he saw it. She was seated on the floor, methodically lacing her boots. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”  
  
“Wish you would’ve. Could’ve watched you dress.”  
  
She smirked, finishing one boot and beginning on the other. Gascon watched her in silence. It was taking all of his restraint not to ask her to stay, light-heartedly, of course, his plea wrapped in jokes and adorned with humor. Perhaps he would tease her about Reynard, make light of the endless list of duties awaiting her in Rivia. But he knew he would ask in vain, and the last thing he wished to do was cause her pain or doubt. After all, not a thing had changed overnight. She was still Meve, Queen of Lyria and Rivia. She was still accountable for the lives and well-being of so many. She had edicts to sign, balls to attend, nobles to make and break as she saw fit. The war had ended, and now, after the smoke had cleared, the time had come to return to their old lives, their old selves - it was inevitable, inescapable, as certain as fate itself.  
  
As she began to gather her things, Gascon departed from the bed and dressed quickly himself - breeches, tunic, boots, and, of course, his now-infamous cape. Her eyes twinkled as he adorned himself with this last accessory. They descended the stairs together, Meve with her head held high, already anticipating the events of the day, and Gascon yet yawning and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. When she stopped in his home’s entryway and turned to him, he offered her an easy, reassuring smile, insistent on masking the turmoil and dull dread that had heightened within him with each step they had taken towards the door.   
  
“Gascon,” she began, an unusual uncertainty playing within her sapphire eyes. “I wish to thank you. For everything you’ve done for me.”

“Think nothin’ of it,” he grinned and crossed his arms over his chest. “You’ll find nowt but the utmost ‘ospitality here, anytime you wish.”

Meve smiled, but there was little joy in the look. She began to step away, but her step faltered, her certainty wavered. She turned from the door, crossed the room, and drew him into a close embrace, her lips pressing hard against his own. She kissed him fiercely, desperately, in a way that felt too much like a goodbye. When she pulled away, her eyes danced with thoughts, words unspoken. Yet, when she spoke, her message was simple.    
  
“Keep safe,” she whispered, her lips so close to his own. He could not help but look at them, at the soft curve of them, and with no small amount of longing.   
  
“I will,” he vowed, taken aback by her display of unabashed honesty. “After all, I’ll be ‘ere, won’t I? Not a lot of grisly fates to befall me ‘ere, ‘cept of course boredom, growing old, and getting fat.” A slow look of horror crossed his face. “On second thought, do you ‘ave any room in your personal guard for another soldier? Perhaps a position yelling at new recruits at the castle? Open to suggestions, really.”   
  
Meve scoffed faintly in disbelief and pressed her hand hard into his chest, demanding his attention to her words. “I mean it, Gascon. You know, for an ex-brigand, you don’t lie particularly well.”   
  
Gascon attempted to conjure up yet another joke or excuse to divert her from the truth she already was seemingly well aware of, but a pointed look from her stopped him short. His shoulders sagged in defeat, his arms dropped away from his chest and fell to his sides. What point was there in continuing an unbelieved lie?    
  
Gascon shrugged slowly and murmured, “Not to you, I suppose.”   
  
His words struck her hard; he saw it in her eyes. Yet, the emotion fled from her face before it could be made even more apparent. Meve fought it off, pressed it down, hid it away - he knew each maneuver well, after all. Next, she would attempt to retreat. He drew her into a close embrace before she could do so, daring to run his thumb along the strong line of her jaw, coaxing her to look into his eyes. She did.   
  
“I’ll never be far, Meve. I promise. If you need me - need me for anything at all - just call. I’ll come running,” he paused, the corners of his lips twisting into a faint smile. “Say ‘ello to Reynard for me. And maybe, just maybe, someday you’ll find a bed somewhere in that massive castle of yours that’s big enough for the three of us.” 

She laughed softly and blinked back unexpected tears, carefully ensuring they did not fall. She surrendered to his embrace, allowing herself this one last luxury before returning to her awaiting reality.    
  
When she pulled away at last, her shoulders straight and chin tilted forward with resolve, Gascon followed her out the door and into the cool, pre-dawn air. Her men were already assembling, though many of them looked rather groggy and perhaps a bit hungover. Willard was with them, arms crossed over his barrel-shaped chest. He nodded briskly as they approached.    
  
“Sir. Your grace.”   
  
“Willard, if I’m not mistaken? I see you’ve taken excellent care of my men, perhaps  _ too _ good of care,” Meve just barely masked a grin of amusement at the state of her soldiers. “Regardless, I thank you for your hospitality. Tell Count Brossard you deserve a raise.”   
  
“Aye, my lady, I’ll do that,” the man beamed and bowed deeply, and not even a pointed glare from Gascon could diminish his smugness. 

  
Meve accepted her mount’s reins, brought to her by one of her men, and deftly leapt into her saddle. Gascon watched her, taking care to stay a reasonable distance back, as much as he wished to do otherwise. Her men thronged to her without waiting for her command, and within minutes, they were ready to depart. They turned their steeds to the road, falling into familiar formation. As they prepared to ride, Meve turned in her saddle, and her eyes locked with his. She raised a gloved hand in farewell.   
  
“Until next time, Count Brossard.”   
  
He raised his own hand. Her gaze lingered just a moment longer, and Gascon wondered if perhaps she was as uneager to depart as he was to see her go. The moment passed, and she turned her gaze forward, her heels kicking firmly into her mount’s sides. With that, Queen Meve of Lyria and Rivia, along with her faithful ensemble, vanished just as they had come - in a resounding thunder of hooves and a swirl of dust. Gascon watched them go until they were well down the road and all that was visible of her was the glint of early light on her armor and hair. His hand fell slowly to his side.    
  
Willard approached him, clearing his throat gruffly, and awaited his orders.    
  
“We stick to the plan,” Gascon confirmed simply. “You know what to do.”   
  
“Aye,” Willard vanished and set about his work.   
  
Gascon sought his own mount, an unusually uppity mare with a bad habit of biting those who annoyed her, and began to prepare her for the road. As he worked, he found himself lost in thought. Fragments of memories of the night before flickered through his mind, both pleasant and painful.  _ Her blushing smile. The curve of her calves, wet from her bath. Her quickened, passionate breaths. Her resounding laugh of delight at his foolish jests.  _ He tightened the saddle before him abruptly, prompting a snort of warning - he patted his steed’s neck by way of apology and hoisted himself up. Gascon kicked his mare into motion and trotted to the gates of his main estate. Behind him sat more luxury than he had ever dared to hope for in his life, more than a career’s worth of riches combined could match. Before him waited a long, open road of unknowns. Many of his men were already waiting for him, and the rest joined soon after. Willard was the last to return. He offered a brisk nod of confirmation that all were in place.    
  


“Right, lads, we’ve a mission before us,” he grinned broadly and turned his mare in a slow circle to address the throng of men surrounding him. “Th’ good Queen Meve informed me there are yet a number of Blackclads who ‘aven’t found their way back ‘ome. Doesn’t that just bring a tear to your eye? In fact, it seems that some of ‘em ‘ave no plans to leave. They’re growin’ right comfortable here in the North, in fact, putting down roots, plotting their next moves. We can’t ‘ave that, can we?” A lively swell of jeers and dismayed shouts only widened his grin. “Thought not. We can’t well sit idly by, growing fat and doing nowt, while these Nilfgaardian knobs take what doesn’t belong to ‘em, can we? Let’s be good neighbors and remind ‘em of their place. Who’s with me?  _ AWOOOO _ !”   
  
The still night above the sprawling estate in Spalla was pierced by a cacophony of fearsome, joyous howls and cries and yips, soon followed once more by the thunder of hooves. As they departed from his sprawling estate in Spalla, Gascon removed his fur-lined cape with one gloved hand and let it flutter to the ground. He rode forward and did not look back.


End file.
